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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061897">Use What You Have</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/northern_wolf6/pseuds/northern_wolf6'>northern_wolf6</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Uncharted (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abandonment, Archeologist shenanigans, Bar Fight, British Slang, Charlie and OC are funky besties, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, F/M, Indiana Jones References, Lots of alcohol too, Male-Female Friendship, OC is a lil b, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Relationships, Post-Uncharted 4: A Thief's End, Slow Burn, Swearing, Tension, Treasure Hunting, lots of smoking</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 18:48:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061897</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/northern_wolf6/pseuds/northern_wolf6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Fiona W. Jones is an eccentric, grumpy, alcoholic archeologist - she made a career as a professor at the local university and, as a result of many successful researches, has signed up contract with several museums, selling them artifacts.<br/>One time, on a trail of new adventure, she decides to pay a visit to an old friend, Charlie Cutter; and as an aftermath of the series of unfortunate events, she owes him nothing more, nothing less, but a story.<br/>And not just any story.<br/>’You’ll just tell me how you met the Drakes,’ Charlie said.</p><p>(The story is placed after the events of Uncharted 4, but before the Epilogue.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Charlie Cutter/Original Female Character(s) (platonic), Samuel Drake/Original Female Character(s), Samuel Drake/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: The London Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay, so - for this chapter I've read TONS OF ARTICLES about British slang and typical stuff. I'm sorry up front if I messed some phrases up, English is not even my first language! I really just wanted it to be more "authentic", for the sake of our British baby, Charlie. I seriously think he's such an amazing character and deserves more love.<br/>About the work itself: meet Fiona. She's weak, rude and obnoxious. Asthma, too. Lots of asthma.<br/>I love her with all my heart, and I truly wish to be strong and creative enough to tell you her whole story, and to make you love her just as much as I do.<br/>Let's see how this goes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Fiona tilted her head ever slightly, eyes locked in an amber liquid before her. Thin fingers were drumming gently against the glass, as if eager to lift it up to the mouth; yet being stopped by the common sense, all they could do was the impatient wiggle. The shadow of a previous sip was still burning pleasantly in the back of fragile woman’s throat and she would lie if she said she didn’t crave another wave of heat. More than anything though, she wanted it to last; the haziness, the dizzy state, the clouds over her thoughts, being burned and turned to ashes more and more, with each next sip.</p><p>Growing even more impatient she tilted the glass eagerly, already waving to bartender for another round. The man, tall and thin with slicked back, grey hair, frowned slightly. He bit his tongue though, not saying a word, and reaching the whiskey bottle, refilled the glass immediately. He already knew better than that, or should it be said - he remembered brightly the bouquet of insults the woman threw at him last time he questioned her decision.</p><p>It was past midnight, the sky being as dark as raven’s feather, not a single star daring to shine through the heavy clouds. London streets looked gloomy as ever, shining with humidity; it was pouring, quite heavily, with small, sharp and cold drops. Despite being a Friday night though, pub on the suburbs was rather empty, as if its clients got spooked by the general mood, hovering above the city as heavily as the rain clouds. Around seven people, at most, occupied the dirty wooden tables, speaking to each other quietly, glancing at the TV above the bar every now and then - England was playing with France today, and it was almost a miracle that rowdy fans decided to cheer for their team at homes. Or maybe they just chose another pub?</p><p>Someone cursed over how the defender is a ”bloody maggot” who ”must’ve never seen the ball in his whole fuckin’ life”, someone else replied on how the former should ”shut his damn muzzle” or else he’ll ”spoon his ugly eye out”. Someone other laughed, the bartender snorted. Fiona sighed and took a sip of shining, amber whiskey, squeezing her eyes over the burn down her throat.</p><p>The door of the pub swung open, letting the sharp air in, along with a few drops of the rain. The entering character commented quietly on the weather, being quite generous with the use of words; a tall man the figure was, well built, with sharp features. He revealed his form, taking off a leather jacket and a cap, with more ugly words leaving them on the hanger to dry. Just as he was about to direct his heavy steps towards the bar, ready to comment on the English team’s poorfootball performance, the bright eyes of his landed on the small figure occupying one of the stools, back facing where he stood.</p><p>’Bloody hell,’ the man said in a thick, British accent, slowly approaching Fiona - who only smirked to her glass. ’My favorite little bird, who would’ve thought. Good evening, doctor Jones.’</p><p>’The one and fucking only,’ she turned her head. ’Long time no see, Charlie. You’re as bald as I expected you to be, if not more.’</p><p>The man, being no other than Charlie Cutter, laughed heartedly and occupied the stool right next to her, waving for a beer. Once throwing a few bills on a counter, he took a long sip, foam remaining above his lips. A comfortable silence fell between the two, the comments about awful football game being the only thing heard. Fiona got lost in the hazy thoughts again, frowning everso slightly, until the soft question landed - not urging one, just curious, since Charlie knew her harsh demeanor all too well.</p><p>’What brings you here, love?’ He asked, glancing sideways at the mess of her hair.</p><p>’Can’t I just pay a visit to my sweet fucking friend?’</p><p>’Did you just call me a friend?’</p><p>’Who says I’m talking about you?’ </p><p>Bartender chuckled, his gaze not leaving the glass he was occupied with, polishing its surface - he felt the harsh stares he earned though, from both of his eccentric clients. Meeting with the silence, Charlie didn’t urge the question further, bringing his focus back on the thick, dark beer. He never, in fact, liked Guinness, thinking it’s too bitter and heavy for his tastes - but who would he be, entering the British pub and not ordering even a glass? Eyeing the golden liquid Fiona slurped on, he suddenly remembered she never liked whiskey either; the mere thought making the corner of his lips twitch slightly.</p><p>The horrendous match came to an end, causing a wave of curses - England lost. Part of the guests started getting up, ready to face the rain on a way back home. A couple of them remained, committing to drink over the national team’s loss. The emotional babble of commentator was finally replaced by a heavy, lively music - Dropkick Murphys for sure, considering Irish flag bartender had hung behind him. Vigorous vocals, exclaiming about the ”name written here, in a rose tattoo”, successfully muted all the conversations, finally offering some privacy in the pub’snarrow space.</p><p>’I gotta find something for, uhm… Fuck. For the museum.’ Fiona stated silently, her thin forefinger tracing crystal cuts on the glass. ’They want to make some kind of a joke, bullshit exhibition about fucking pirates. And they need… Stuff.’</p><p>’So, the pirate hunt? In London?’</p><p>Charlie couldn’t help the giggle when the woman let out an annoyed huff. He couldn’t help it, playing on her nerves was too much of a fun to just skip it - no wonder Samuel did it all the time. Whenever the Englishman saw the two together, it was a real life comedy to watch. Older Drake just didn’t seem to have boundaries when it came to irritating the small brunette - but even though, her patience seemed to be oddly stretched when it came to that.</p><p>Charlie downed his beer and snapped fingers for another one. Might as well need some courage before dropping the bomb, one he thought on dropping for quite a while, just never had an opportunity to do so.</p><p>’If you’d ever spent some more time on reading, <em>love</em>,’ Fiona said, looking at him, the raging fire warming up her grey eyes in a dangerous way - she sarcastically imitated the British accent on the last word. ’Instead of farting around like a fucking idiot, maybe you would know that most of the seventeenth century captains were, in fact, deserters from the English army.’</p><p>’If you’d ever spent some more time on field research, <em>love</em>,’ Charlie, of course, stood up to the challenge and looked her in the eye with a cocky smile. ’Instead of being all bloody cocked up, you would know there’s nothing to find in here.’</p><p>’Well, good thing it’s not your fucking job to judge on that.’</p><p>’Let me know when you realize it’s all bollocks, bird.’</p><p>’Fuck you, Cutter.’</p><p>Much to bartender’s relief - hearing the part of conversation, by accident, stands to reason, he was expecting the fists to start flying - the two laughed warmly, sharing a light fist bump over the counter.</p><p><em>Now or never</em>, Charlie thought, while taking a generous sip of disgustingly bitter Guinness.</p><p>’You know, you never told me how you met Drakes.’</p><p>Fiona stopped the glass mid-way to her lips and the Englishman saw her jaw twitch dangerously. Oh yes, he knew. He was sure it’s quite a story, and the mean, gossipy part of him couldn’t help, but grin obnoxiously.</p><p>’I’ve heard some <em>things</em>, of course… But I thought I might want to hear it from you.’ He continued, raising his brows, curiously awaiting the reply.</p><p>The long silence fell between the two.</p><p>’You’re not my friend, Charlie, but you have my trust,’ she said in a low voice, almost as cold as ice cubes that were ringing lightly in her whiskey. Her eyes were desperately trying to search for any sign of bad intentions on his face. ’I ask you kindly, not to fuck it up. Not with bullshit as such.’</p><p>The man opened his mouth to reply, a sassy comment - one that would most definitely send her blood to boiling - lingering in his throat, but the loud bang interrupted him rudely. It was the pub door - kicked open, hitting the wall as four men entered, dressed in camo, leather and flat caps. The one in front, with square jaw and bright, blue eyes, glanced around the place wildly, as iflooking for something, or, most definitely, someone. Everything cleared up once his eyes landed on Fiona’s petit form, siping on her alcohol unbothered.</p><p>’You bloody daft cow!’ The man exclaimed, growling, making the said cow snort with laughter.</p><p>’British pirates, at your service,’ she joked, looking up at Charlie, who - much to his astonishment - couldn’t help, but chuckle. The smile crawled down from his face as he saw men approaching the bar, one handling a baseball bat, one knife, two with their fists ready to blow. Jumping down the stool, Englishman barely dodged the first swing; mere instinct ordered him to grab Fiona by thin shoulders and pull her back, behind him.</p><p>’Ay, ay, ay, lads…’ Charming smile appeared on his face. How he hoped it’s just a misunderstanding… ’I’m sure we can talk it out, can’t we?’</p><p>’Sure thing, we can talk,’ was an answer, followed by another swing. The woman squealed lightly as Charlie pushed her further, behind the bar, now standing face to face with four, impolitely looking enemies. ’But first I’ll get that cunt and rip her fucking scalp off.’</p><p>As if by the magical snap, a small pub at the crossroads of South Grove and Oulton Road turned to hell, going absolutely unnoticed to characters passing by - a few poor souls were too focused on escaping the rain to pay attention to it, or to even hear the rumble over the wind.</p><p>Charlie barely dodged the third swing, although was quick enough to serve the counterattack. The man’s massive fist smacked against the eager leader’s obnoxiously square jaw, knocking him off his feet, powerfully enough to send him back over the stools. Just as the rest of men launched themselves forward, the remaining guests of the pub - encouraged by an alcohol and grief after England’s football loss - left their tables to began the row. The music roared loudly from speakers above, adding up to the general drama of a situation. It must be stated that at this point, counting the flying items would be almost impossible - much wiser and, most of all, easier, would be to try noticing what remained untouched.</p><p>A single chair flew in the air, someone landed on the table, crushing the legs underneath their mass. A few glasses fell on a floor, baseball bat, thrown with unspeakable power, smashed the TV screen, Charlie jumped to the side - avoiding the sharp blade of a knife that his oponent got from behind the belt. He groaned and pulled out his own, ready to attack. The flying bottle almost hit his head.</p><p>With terror written across his face, the bartender - who, assuming from the horrified moan, appeared to also be an owner of the place - watched as the pub turned into a true dumpster, filled with grunting, punching men and smell of sweat and alcohol. Doing the only thing that could come to his mind at the moment, without triggering anyone to turn their rage on him, poor man started moving over to the side of a counter where his phone laid; that is, until he felt a cool metal against his temple.</p><p>’You touch that phone, I’ll blow your face off,’ Fiona stated, while pushing the barrel of a small revolver further into bartender’s head.</p><p>That is, until a pair of strong arms took a hold on her neck from behind, and with a painful yelp, said revolver fell on a ground, disappearing in the shadows. Brunette struggled against the assault, glasses almost falling from her nose; but she was too weak to fight the oponent, who seemingly took pleasure in squeezing her thin, swan-like neck, harder and harder, slowly shallowing each of her weak breaths.</p><p>Right in that moment, Charlie flipped one of the tables, giving himself some space and time between his rival - who, even though his face was a bloody mess, didn’t seem to know when to stop. Englishman’s gaze lingered on Fiona for a second, and the sight of her fragile frame, dying off, set his blood boiling. He most certainly didn’t have time to get to her, yet the idea popped in his head, bright and loud.</p><p>’The bottle, Jones, grab the bloody bottle!’ He screamed on top of his lungs, over the din. Woman could barely hear the words, pressure raising in her ears hurtfully; although with one last strike of power she reached out, curling fingers around the whiskey bottle. Not giving it much thinking, she swung the bottle back, sending the glass shatters and alcohol everywhere on the floor - along with her attacker, who’s face and head were now covered in tiny, obnoxious cuts.</p><p>Fiona fell on her knees, grasping for air. She turned around quickly, as the grunt could be heard; it seemed as if the man didn’t have enough and was slowly raising to his feet, not bothered by her hit.</p><p><em>He’s going to kill me</em>, she only thought, unable to move.</p><p>But that, of course, didn’t have a chance to happen, as the assaulter’s head was grabbed and forcefully smashed against the counter, sending him off into the unconsciousness.</p><p>Charlie grinned wickedly, in a warm, yet somewhat sassy way. He rushed to help the brunette up, fixing the round glasses on her nose with a chuckle. He glanced her over, before his eyes landed on the bartender - who seemed to froze in place.</p><p>’Thanks for help, mate,’ he huffed. ’Real gentleman.’</p><p>The music have died off, an awful song coming to an end - and so did the row. Football enthusiasts howled loudly, satisfied with adrenaline and alcohol pumping their veins; seemingly not caring about broken noses and teeth, while the ”British pirates” were laying on the ground, some grunting, some taken by a painful sleep. Fiona looked around wide-eyed, cough still in the back of her throat. Not quite sure of what she might see, the woman decided to examine her own arms, inevitably covered in glass cuts - and as a little girl, who didn’t feel pain until she saw the bruise, she must’ve fought tears, now welling up in the corners of her eyes.</p><p>’Well, now, that’s fucking nasty,’ she croaked, stinging of the cut skin being absolutely unbearable for her pain tolerance level. Charlie couldn’t help but notice the shaking hands - and not quite sure of what he could allow himself to do, put a big, warm palm on her thin shoulder, thumb lightly stroking the bruise already forming on the neck.</p><p>’Let’s get outta here, bird, we’ll take care of that back at my place. Come on.’</p><p>The brunette didn’t seem to complain, immediately taking to leave; disgust visible on her face when she took big steps over bodies, dodging arms of remaining pub’s guests - who, being very content about how their night turned out, seemingly craved hugs.</p><p>They walked in silence. Fiona still taken aback by the turn of events, Charlie not daring to bring it up - last thing he wanted was to infuriate her now, in nerves. Throughout their time in the bar rain calmed down slightly, now sprinkling with even tinier drops, covering faces and clothes with a thin, cool layer; cool enough just to soothe sore bodies. They took a turn into the next street, where a few lamps were blinking wickedly.</p><p>’I owe you one, Cutter,’ she finally said, her voice hoarse from not speaking. Charlie looked down and smirked, relieved to see a gentle smile tugging on the corners of her lips. ’I swear, I’ll tell you everything about those fucking pirates. Maybe you’ll be interested.’</p><p>The Englishman grinned now, wider than ever, playful mischief visible in his bright eyes.</p><p>Fiona frowned lightly - she knew that look.</p><p>’That won’t be necessary, love,’ Charlie chuckled. ’You’ll just tell me how you met the Drakes.’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Fine Art of Trauma</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As for this chapter, hm.<br/>Swearing, smoking, Fiona being rude.<br/>Sad retrospection, nervous reunion.<br/>Sounds just delicious.<br/>Also, a little disclaimer! In the series, the orphanage - Saint Francis Boys' Home - was, well, a boys' home. For the sake of my story, I decided to change that fact, and make it a "general" orphanage.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a late afternoon when the dirty, white school bus stopped at the courtyard of Saint Francis Orphanage. Screaming children started pouring out of it uncontrollably - poor sisters tried to form them into smaller groups, but were failing miserably; there’s no way to stop the excitement of the youth, there never was.</p><p>The sun was getting ready to set; sky in the shades of pink and orange, not one cloud visible on the horizon. The last person to exit overcrowded bus was a thin girl - she could be fourteen or fifteen years old, at most, and it must be said, could be easily confused as a boy. Not only was she rather tall; her upper body short and flat, with skinny, long limbs sticking out of it, like a young horse, but most importantly, her dark hair were cut short, sticking out in every direction possible. Over the swan neck, her face was small and soft, round, cheeks blushed and lips plump.</p><p>The girl squeezed her mouth ever slightly, in a light pout. She jumped from the last, metal step, immediately getting swallowed by the crowd of other children. Frowning, she quickly fixed a pair of big, round glasses that were hanging from her tiny and funnily upturned nose, and started pushing through the peers; one hand gripping on a backpack strap, the other on two books, held firmly against her chest.</p><p>Once the crowd loosened up when entering the orphanage building, the girl didn’t look back twice, ignoring one of the nuns yelling after her. She ran up the staircase, taking two or even three steps at the time, almost tripping over her own, spider-like legs several times. The small brunette rushed to her room, and mind you, she wasn’t pouting anymore - a light, playful smile was tugging at the corners of her lips - as she entered a spacious, group bedroom.</p><p>She jumped on her bed, not bothering to kick off the shoes, almost ripping apart the backpack zipper in the meantime. The bag’s contents revealed even more books - some of them were worn from the long use, some in only slightly better shape, but two of them looked brand new, wrapped gently in a grey paper. Those, she carefully took out and unwrapped, grinning to herself in a very childish, silly way. Big, grey eyes sparkled proudly when she, oh, so blissfully, moved thin fingers over pretty, colorful letters marking the covers. </p><p>
  <em>Henry Avery - Life and Death. Unsolved mysteries and more.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Secrets of the South. Ancient societies of America.</em>
</p><p>The girl giggled, jumping slightly on the bed. She was sure those little treasures are gonna make great gifts, she could almost imagine the looks on her friends’ faces, and couldn’t help the excitement and - it must be said - a slight rush of adrenaline.</p><p>Being <em>very</em> eager to finally gift the new acquisitions, the girl jumped from the bed and run off - out of her room, down the corridor, turning left to the next one, approaching the “307” marked door, one she knew all too well. She could hear her breath hitch from excitement, threatening for an asthma attack to hit any moment. She couldn’t risk such embarrassment, so before entering, she retrieved an inhaler that was laying comfortably in her loose jeans’ pocket; she took a deep breath of medicine, her hands shaking in anticipation, and squeezed the books to her chest.</p><p>She gave the wooden surface a light knock - she knew she was the first one to run upstairs after the trip, so her friend was surely there, alone. He didn’t answer though, so she knocked again, and after another minute of silence, again.</p><p>Growing impatient, the girl opened the door by herself and took a few confident, long strides inside, waving her new books and speaking loudly - before she could take a look of what awaited her.</p><p>’Nate, I swear, you won’t believe what I got! It cost me <em>hella</em> lot of money, but…’</p><p>The girl trailed off, a wide smile crawling down from her little face. Much to her terror, by Nathan’s bed stood sister Catherine - with two big boxes, in which, what she could easily assume, she was packing boy’s belongings. A few books, disheveled pair of shoes, clothes; she could even see a red baseball shirt sticking out, one she knew belonged to his older brother before.</p><p>Some posters that used to hang above Nate’s place were taken off, leaving a few light, sad spots on the wall.</p><p>’You shouldn’t be here, sweetheart,’ the nun said, turning her face to the girl - giving her a weird, mysterious look, one she didn’t know what to make of.</p><p>’What are you doing, sister?’ She asked quietly, in a small voice, as she didn’t know if she wanted to hear an answer.</p><p>’What it looks like? Please, Fiona, leave, you shouldn’t be here. It’s boys’ dormitory and I believe you should be eating a dinner now.’</p><p>’Where’s Nate?’</p><p>’I don’t know.’</p><p>’That’s a pile of bullcrap! What happened, where is he?’</p><p>The girl’s voice was shaking from emotions, her shallow breath kept hitching in her throat - making her sound as if having a hiccup. She could feel her heart racing uncontrollably in hersmall chest, and she only squeezed brand new books towards it; so hard that her knuckles turned white.</p><p>’Language, young lady. What happened is non of your little head’s concern.’</p><p>’He’s my friend, I need to know!’</p><p>Sister Catherine banged one of the boxes against the surface of a small desk and turned around, her eyes furious. Fiona took a step back, tripping on her own legs, her breath now even faster. She frantically reached for an inhaler in her pocket, but couldn’t reach it, her hand trembling too hard.</p><p>’Your friend is probably far away now, I can only bet that with his brother,’ the nun growled, approaching the girl to help her get the inhaler. She pulled the medicine out of child’s worn jeans and motioned for her to breath out - once she was breathing in again, forcing herself to it, Catherine put the inhaler in her mouth and squeezed, placing another hand on the back of girl’s neck. ’He ran off a few days ago. We got the police report saying that he and another, older boy, broke into some old lady’s house. No one saw them after that.’</p><p>One of the precious books fell on the floor, slipping out of the girl’s tight embrace, and Fiona turned her head to look at sister Catherine - searching desperately for any signs of a lie in her eyes. To her terror, she saw the brutal honesty, one that made her breath stop down her throat again.</p><p>’He wouldn’t… And Sam…’</p><p>’But he did, get over it, child. We all knew he would, at some point.’</p><p>The nun squeezed the inhaler again, pushing it against little girl’s lips. Hot tears gathered in the corners of her big eyes and something bitter and heavy lingered in her chest all of the sudden.</p><p>The feeling of abandonment.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fiona blinked a few times, wishing her dreams contained something else than the recap of childhood trauma.</p><p>She remained motionless. She stared at the white ceiling.</p><p>Her whole body was stiff, her limbs hurt - she could feel a constant, annoying tug in every single joint, knees and elbows especially.</p><p>She sighed and squeezed her lids, for just a little while longer.</p><p>It felt as if someone sat on her chest and kept pushing down, and a small, suppressed moan escaped her lips.</p><p>’Fucking hell.’</p><p>Fiona sat up, slowly, her bones giving away many ominous sounds in the process. She looked around and pushed the sheets away, taking in the messy room - though it must be said, she could make out the details from the memory only, most of the surroundings simply looked like a blur. She reached out to the nightstand; her fingers met first with the fragile frame of round glasses, which she pushed on her small nose, then with the inhaler. She took a deep breath of medicine, bitter taste hitting the back of her throat, easing the weight lingering on her chest.</p><p>She then reached out again - this time getting her hand on a squished pack of cigarettes, retrieving one and lighting it quickly with a match.</p><p>The smoke danced in the air gently, mixing with dust that was visible in the hazy, pale sun beams. Fiona’s apartment was on the western side of Boston, with windows facing east - far from the crowded part of the city, therefor quiet and sunny during lazy Saturday mornings. The silence got filled quickly though; with low jazz music, spilling from an old school gramophone.</p><p>Old school.</p><p>Old.</p><p>That was a good word to describe the place.</p><p>Everything - each small space, each item, surface, anything to lay eyes on - could be named as<em>old.</em> And oh, was there a lot of things to name.</p><p>The apartment wasn’t big, although could be considered a comfortable studio; the main door led directly to a spacious living room that was separated from a kitchen with a single, massive bookshelf. From that space, three doorways could be seen, only one equipped with door, though: an office, bedroom and bathroom. Each of the rooms filled with <em>old - s</em>helves, paintings, artifacts. Chairs, boxes, unidentified pieces of furniture, smaller and bigger tables, all covered in yellow papers. Maps, notes, manuscripts. Sketches and pictures, and books, piles of books.</p><p>Old.</p><p>Smoke and dust, subtle sun beams, crawling shyly through the heavy curtains; low jazz. Smell of many pages, hint of alcohol and cigarettes. And heavy, feminine perfume.</p><p>Fiona ran her fingers through short, messy dark hair, annoyed with several locks falling on her forehead. Bare feet tapping on a floor and smoke hanging from dry lips, she made her way towards the kitchen - cursing loudly when she tripped on random items laying on the floor, painfully hitting her toes, twice.</p><p>Time for breakfast: seven pills. Blood pressure, depression, thyroid, anti-allergic, magnesium, hormones, vitamin. </p><p>Along with the last sip of water, an annoying, loud ring pierced through an air. The woman swallowed quickly and groaned - just like that, her morning routine got brutally disturbed, and Lord save the fool who dared to interrupt. She smashed the cigarette butt against the counter, and fixing glasses, rushed back to the bedroom. Fumbling frantically through the items she laid her eyes on, Fiona followed the ringtone; it wasn’t in the pile of clothes, neither between the notes she left on a floor last night. The leather bag was a miss too - but finally, cursing obnoxiously, she found the phone between the sheets, not bothering to think of how it ended up there. Trembling, thin finger found its way to the small, green icon.</p><p>’Jones,’ she picked up in a hoarse voice and threw herself on the bed.</p><p>’Good to hear you’re up, doctor. I got some business.’</p><p>It took her while to recognize a familiar voice of the old bastard; she didn’t take single look at the contact after all, but once she connected the dots - a long sigh left her lungs, wondering what in the hell could’ve Victor god damn Sullivan cooked up this time.</p><p>’I haven’t had my morning coffee yet,’ she warned. ’So better make it fucking quick, mister Sullivan.’</p><p>A warm, sympathetic laugh rung through the speaker, and she couldn’t help but frown.</p><p>’Polite as ever,’ the man said. ’Don’t worry, doc. It’s an easy job. I need a guide for one of the pyramids at Tikal, and who’s better than the expert herself. Could you do that?’</p><p>Another sigh, even deeper.</p><p>’Numbers.’</p><p>’Two men. They’re professional, no gear. Regular price, travel included.’</p><p>’Why?’</p><p>’Why what?’</p><p>’Mister Sullivan, for fuck’s sake, don’t insult mine and yours intelligence. I highly doubt they’ll be visiting Tikal for touristic reasons. Why the fuck, then?’</p><p>’Let’s say I… We… Might have a clue on something else in there. In the third pyramid, to be exact. And you might help us on where to look.’</p><p>A long silence fell. Fiona remained motionless when she noticed a large, light yellow spot on her white ceiling. When did that happen?</p><p>Her whole body went stiff, her limbs never stop to hurt - she could feel a constant, annoying tug in every single joint, knees and elbows especially. When did that happen?</p><p>The age was definitely not treating her gracefully, a fine wine she was not - while only a several wrinkles tugged on the corners of her eyes and lips, girly, childish and round face untouched in general, her body was slowly giving up; a little too early for her proud forty years of walking on earth.</p><p>Oh, but what a years they were.</p><p>’Fine.’</p><p>’Doctor Jones, I know that <em>fine</em> of yours…’</p><p>’I want a piece of whatever shit you’ll find.’</p><p>It was Sullivan’s turn to sigh, although he perfectly knew what Fiona meant by those words - the man worked with her more than once, and was perfectly aware that she didn’t care about treasures, money, wealth nor fame. There wasn’t a lot of things she cared about, in fact; but when she did, however, whatever artifact, whatever rareness were about to be find, the woman truly believed and made sure that its place was in the museum, behind the safe glass; for only that purpose she wanted a part. To save and reserve the history, or at least a piece of it.</p><p>Truly odd she was, the old adventurer thought.</p><p>’Deal,’ he finally agreed, glad the doctor couldn’t see him smile under his mustache. ’We leave tomorrow morning, from the airport.’</p><p>The woman cringed seemingly at the perspective of a flight. Skipping the unnecessary words of farewell, she hung up and threw the phone back between soft sheets.</p><p>Her joints never stopped screaming, piercing her knees and elbows with a several blades of dull pain. Her chest started to tighten a little, once again.</p><p>Fiona reached out for another cigarette. </p><p>Tikal, Guatemala.</p><p>It’s been a long time since she visited those temples.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It must’ve been around 5 or 6 in the morning when Victor Sullivan exchanged warm handshakes with two men, patting their backs and sharing a laugh. The dawn was hanging lazily above the horizon, pale sun beams shining on a damp asphalt of the airport board, all covered in dew. Old man’s plane was sitting there proudly, set for the road; doors opened, just waiting for the passengers to enter. First of the said passengers - tall and slim, with slicked back, brown hair - commented on how the machine never aged and sticked surprisingly well, to which the second one - slightly shorter and buffer, with awfully similar smile - chuckled and responded, of how <em>this damn thing wouldn’t break even if it wanted to. </em>After a small talk about the plane’s vitality, a few other light subject were discussed; the wind, weather in general, weight of the second man, lunch break, until they unanimously decided to gather their luggage - three massive, leather bags - inside. Working on the small steps and a narrow entrance, another words have been spoken.</p><p>’So, Sully, who’s that contact of yours? The guide?’ Shorter and seemingly younger man asked; only few gentle wrinkles were tugging on his skin, temples dusted with a several grey hair. His eyes and expression remained youthful, though - light, shiny eyes and puckish smirk. He threw his bag inside the plane, not quite caring about where it landed, and leaned on a small table, glancing at Victor curiously. His right hand’s fingers started tugging at the left wrist subconsciously, playing with a fastening of a thick, old school, leather watch.</p><p>Sullivan sighed deeply - he was looking for the right words, that was obvious, on how to explain the mysterious guide’s demeanor. While fumbling across the airplane’s dashboard, as if trying to find the correct phrases, the second man joined them inside, the taller one: it could be said now, that quite obviously, him and the other were brothers; this one though, to put it lightly, looked a bit more rough around the edges. From underneath the collar of his jeans shirt the faint tattoo of flying birds was sticking out; he worn more scars too, as well as deep wrinkles and, well, crooked nose - broken in at least two places.</p><p>The man dug into his pocket, struggling with it, until he retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a gas lighter. He earned himself a furious look from Sullivan. Apparently, cigars on his plane were okay - but not regular cigarettes.</p><p>’She’s… Eccentric,’ Sully finally said, with a frown. He stopped at his moves for a second and looked at the machine’s roof; as if praying to whatever gods to help him. He moved fingers through his mustache, smoothening it out.</p><p>’She, huh?’ The older brother chuckled, wiggling his eyebrows in a very, very childish way. He earned a small laugh from the men.</p><p>’Better save that when she’s here,’ Victor warned, half jokingly. ’Seriously, boys. For your own good, don’t make her mad, don’t talk too much. Business only, she…’</p><p>The old man, unluckily, didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. An unidentified, big, square item banged against the plane’s windshield; much to men’s confusion. It took them a while to realize what it was.</p><p>A suitcase.</p><p>As if summoned, a yell rang from the outside, hoarse female voice - along with a sound of the falling luggage, after its successful assault.</p><p>’VICTOR SULLIVAN, YOU OLD FART!’</p><p>The said fart smiled apologetically, and moved towards the exit - ready to face his occasional business partner, drove more by the will to save the boys than by his own courage.</p><p>Outside of the plane, to his expectations, stood doctor Jones - frown on her face, along with a child-like pout. She stood tall, long arms crossed on her thin, flat chest; dressed in a loose, white shirt, camel dress pants held by a pair of suspenders and worn, brown oxford shoes. Her hair, as always - a messy, dark mop, her round glasses, as always - on the mere tip of her nose. The woman tilted her head slightly, noticing Sullivan; she barked a single curse to herself, and approached him in a few long steps. She slipped two and half times, an asphalt was still damp from the dew.</p><p>’There you are, mister Sullivan,’ she said, frown not leaving her knitted brows. ’I thought you were about to take the fuck off. Not sorry about the windshield.’</p><p>’Good to see you too, doctor,’ Sully shook her small hand and bit on his lip, restraining from the comment. ’My partners are…’</p><p>’Yeah, where are the two sorry asses?’ Fiona interrupted and combed fingers through her hair. ’And why the fuck are they pathetic enough to need a damn guide?’</p><p>’We’re paying you, sweetie.’</p><p>’Ah, shut it.’</p><p>The doctor turned her gaze away from the plane, reaching for the front pocket in her shirt; getting a pack of cigarettes and matches, and lighting one immediately. The smoke laid heavily in a thick, morning air - sun was getting higher and higher with each second, but it didn’t scare away the early fog yet. Once Fiona’s gaze returned to Sullivan, two figures appeared, ones that she could only assume, were her new partners. Something felt off; she just couldn’t yet say what exactly, but she most certainly felt it in her left knee.</p><p>She eyed the men, having a long drag of cigarette, and puffed out the smoke.</p><p>’Why do I have a feeling like I know you, pricks?’</p><p>Victor laughed, it was hard to tell if heartedly, or with a dose of nervousness. Probably both.</p><p>’The asses you asked for, doc, Samuel and Nathan Drake. My partners,’ he said, motioning to brothers.</p><p>An awkward silence fell.</p><p>Fiona bit on her lower lip, something heavy in her chest, breath shallowing. She took another quick drag and blinked a few times.</p><p>She fixed glasses.</p><p>Nodded, hummed.</p><p>Threw the butt of cigarette.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> Stepped on it, a bit aggressively.</span></p><p>Coughed, played with the edge of her shirt. Fixed glasses again.</p><p>Looked up, brows knitted stronger than before - if that’s even possible.</p><p>’Makes sense now,’ she said, her voice smaller than she would like it to be.</p><p>Sullivan looked at Sam and Nate, question in his eyes.</p><p>’That’s because I <em>do</em> know you, pricks.’</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for reading! Please drop a comment if you have any suggestions or opinions!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. All Along The Watchtower</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, well, well, what do we have here? More bittersweet retrospectives?<br/>Yes, exactly.<br/>I want to make them a regular thing - to keep the contrast between characters' relationship in the past and what it looks like now.<br/>I hope you'll like this nice little touch, and let's face it: we all love teenage Sam.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>’I’m not sure about that,’ Fiona said, looking up. She squinted her eyes and blinked a few times, as if trying to see better; then with finality she fixed a pair of round glasses on her tiny nose and shook her head. ’No, no way, Sammy. I won’t climb it.’</p><p>Samuel tilted his head slightly and gave the girl a wicked, yet charming grin; one he knew she couldn’t resist.</p><p>’Finn,’ he said her nickname in a sweet, low voice, earning an eye roll. ’Of course you can, you gotta. What’s the fun if we just give up?’ </p><p>’Why can’t you just climb first and throw me a rope?’ </p><p>’Because you won’t learn anything that way.’</p><p>She seemed as if she wanted to say something, but held it back, opening and closing her mouth. She then looked up again, pouting slightly, puffing out her already round cheeks; the church bell tower seemed absolutely <em>massive</em>, its round and shallow bricks almost impossible to grip. The gothic architecture, shining with rain moisture in the moonlight, was giving out quite a gloomy atmosphere, creepy almost - not making the whole thing any easier to consider. Fiona tapped her sneakers against the red roof tiles, still unsure, but then, giving the teenage boy a one, last glance, hung her head low and nodded.</p><p>’Okay, but you won’t look.’</p><p>’Cross my heart, I won’t,’ Sam giggled, already approaching the tower’s wall, getting ready to crawl his way up. ’Take your time. I’ll be waiting upstairs, with the surprise.’</p><p>And without a second word, he pulled himself up, skillfully; taking a brick after brick, working on the surface as if he was born only to climb, not caring one bit about the grip being damp. Fiona frowned slightly, watching her friend - he made it look easy, but she already knew she would fall. She was too weak for bouldering, her thin fingers couldn’t handle the hold, not to mention the general clumsiness of the disproportional, skinny body. No matter how many times she tried, she could never keep up with Sam. Not in that.</p><p>Finn - as the boy liked to jokingly call her (<em>It fits you so much better</em>, he would say) - looked around, frowning. She <em>had</em> to climb that tower, he made it clear; if she makes it to the top, he’ll show her the surprise he’s been talking about since she opened the window to her dormitory, whispering conspiratorially. It had to surely be important, considering how excited Samuel was, she couldn’t let him down.</p><p>And so, the girl decided to backtrack slightly to where they came from - one roof lower, from where she could see an outline of the orphanage building. She didn’t bother looking that waythough, instead, making her way towardsthe next roof, this one higher again, slipping several times on the damp tiles. As if lighting her way, the moon shone brightly; sadly it didn’t make the situation much better for her. Poor sighted, she had difficulty seeing even with glasses during the day, not to mention the night, when it got even worse, world around her being nothing but a blur. Bravely though, Fiona she made her way to another high ground - this time facing the tower and the roof from which Sam left from the side.</p><p>’Crap,’ she murmured, eyeing the surroundings. There wasn’t much she could do, her climbing skills and general physical condition rather poor, and she was quite convinced that…</p><p>But then she saw it.</p><p>The girl smiled to herself widely.</p><p>From the new perspective she could see what was earlier hidden - another, smaller church tower, that appeared to be connected with her objective with a thin connector; one that in heavy, gothic style was nothing more but decoration, with no practical use, but in her case would work just perfectly, as a bridge from one place to another.</p><p>What’s most important, on the side of the smaller tower, a metal ladder shone brightly.</p><p>Fiona wasted no time, excitement filling her with unbelievable energy. She could feel her hands trembling lightly, breath shallowing when she made her way - carefully - through the roofs. She only slipped once, this time, while approaching the newly discovered tower. Before taking the climb up the ladder, she retrieved an inhaler from her jeans’ pocket and took a breath of medicine, just in case; only then, she proceeded up.</p><p>The connector between both towers turned out to be narrower than she thought, the fear of slipping from it laid heavy in her stomach. The girl pushed through slowly, each step calculatedand cautious. Once reaching the beforehand unreachable objective, she let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding - and she couldn’t ask for a better reward than Samuel’s bright face, when he turned around to see her.</p><p>’Now, that was something,’ the boy said, jumping towards his friend and messing with short, dark mop on her head, only to then lean his elbow there. ’At some point you jumped between those two roofs, and woah, it was quite a leap. You took it like it was nothing.’</p><p>Finn pushed the boy away with a light pout on her face, and looked up; she remembered when her and Sam were the same height, but he recently got almost a head taller than her - and he couldn’t stop using that as a tease.</p><p>’You promised not to look!’</p><p>’How would I know if you hurt yourself, if I didn’t?’</p><p>’You’re such a butt, Sammy,’ she finally chuckled. ’This surprise of yours, better be a good one. The whole deal almost gave me an asthma attack.’</p><p>’It’s not actually that difficult to give you an asthma attack, so…’</p><p>’Sam!’</p><p>’Alright, alright, sorry!’</p><p>The teens laughed heartedly, finally taking some time to look around the space they were in. It was the highest point of a watch tower at the church near the Saint Francis orphanage; the space they were standing on was a platform around big, rusty bell - they never in their lives heard it, so the machinery must’ve been long broken. On one of the walls the mechanism of the watch was visible, while three others offered meager, stone balconies. There was nothing but underside of old tiles above them, and the space itself wasn’t quite interesting either, two or three wooden crates in the corner. What was rather capturing though, was what outside of the tower proffered: a wide panorama of sleeping Boston, the sky ebony black, the lights of the city flickering in thousands of colors. Fiona let out a small gasp at the view; while Sam leaned against one of the balconies’ arched doorway, smiling and letting his backpack slide on the brick floor.</p><p>’Quite a view,’ the boy said quietly, heading to take a seat on the balcony. It was rather narrow and didn’t have a railing, only a few gothic ornaments, so that his legs were hanging off the edge - Finn joined him, although fear could definitely be seen in her eyes. She was moving slowly and cautiously, hands gripping one of the ornaments when she was finally seated. She hummed in approval to her friend’s words, and leaned slightly against the angry gargoyle she held.</p><p>A comfortable silence fell when they took their time to admire the surroundings. It was the middle of July; nights during the summertime in Massachusetts were rather pleasant, warm, but not too much - a light breeze allowing to wear just a thin jacket over a t-shirt. Fiona zipped up her baseball one quickly at the thought: she always got angina or lungs inflammation quite easily when she wasn’t careful enough, and sickness was the last thing she wanted now. Nuns were awful when it came to taking care of sick children.</p><p>’How are you, Sammy?’ she asked, finally turning slightly to look at her friend, concern audible in her tone. ’I mean, recently? Do you, you know… Have a place to sleep?’ She frowned.</p><p>Sam returned the gaze, smiling lightly, although the smile didn’t reach his eyes; she saw that, but choose not to comment. He remained silent for a little while longer, as if considering what to answer. She didn’t comment on that either.</p><p>’It’s fine,’ he replied, not quite convincing. ’I found a good job, and a place to stay, I met some people. I’m seeing a girl even, you’d like her, Crystal…’</p><p>Finn giggled, to which the boy raised his eyebrows.</p><p>’What kind of name is that?’</p><p>’What kind of name Fiona is?’</p><p>’Well, it’s not <em>Crystal</em>, so still better.’</p><p>A loud laugh escaped him, this time sincere, and soon both their voices were echoing throughout the roofs. They talked about everything, as they always did: annoying adults, holes in good, old jeans, Nate’s sassy remarks, historical curiosities, all small moments of happiness and worries. The night was getting darker and darker, stars slowly visible on the sky’s velvet surface. An hour could have passed, a slow and comfortable one; cheerful to say the least.</p><p>’Then he fixed my glasses again,’ Fiona said, chucking. ’And I gave him my dessert in return, we’ve had a chocolate pudding. I’ve never seen him so happy, I swear.’</p><p>Sam nodded with a wide grin at the image of his little brother; he heard the same story from Nathan two days ago, and the boy couldn’t stop babbling about the double pudding serving. Lord knows he deserved it, the teen thought, and looked up at his friend; now sitting relaxed on the balcony, her thoughts seemingly drifted away from the possibility of falling - she no longer clinged to the gargoyle, instead leaning back on her elbows, eyes lost in the night sky.</p><p>’Finn,’ he said, her attention immediately all on him. ’I got something, the surprise.’</p><p>The girl sat up straight, raising eyebrows and fixing the pair of glasses nervously. He knew she didn’t like surprises, they were more stressing than pleasant for her - he could already see her hands shaking slightly and her chest raising and falling faster than usual, breath surely shallowing. Not wasting much time, he grabbed his backpack and dug into the smallest pocket, grabbing the little trinket he prepared. He motioned for the brunette to give him her petit hand - and left the item there, gently curling her fingers around it.</p><p>Fiona looked up at him, unsure, and then turned to examine the surprise. A quiet gasp left her.</p><p>Sam shifted in place, fumbling with the edge of his jacket.</p><p>’Do you… Do you like it?’ he asked in a small voice.</p><p>What laid in the girl’s hand was a little globe. Deep, dark blue, with golden ornaments, thin chain sticking from one of them - and as she tried to realize what it was, she suddenly noticed that one of the small, shining parts was, in fact, a lock. After pushing gently, the globe fell open, revealing that it was, after all, an old-fashioned pocket watch; with a simple, plain face and ornate hands. Her gaze fell on the inside of its shutter, where weird signs were scribbled.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Χρῶ χρήμασιν.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>-S.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>She blinked a few times, gently moving the tip of her finger over the letters, and looked up, question in her eyes - to which Sam rushed with an explanation, stuttering over the words.</p><p>’It’s… It’s one of the Delphic Maxims,’ he said. ’There’s one hundred and forty seven of them, all inscribed on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi, Greece, but… You, you know the story. This one though… It means, <em>use what you have</em>.’</p><p>He paused, seeking the friend’s acceptance; but for once, he couldn’t read a thing from her face.</p><p>’You keep saying that you’re weak, that you’re not like me, or Nate,’ he lowered his gaze now, voice getting more quiet with each word, not quite sure of what he was saying anymore. ’And it’s true, you’re not like us. But what I mean is… You’re ain’t going to always have us at your side to help you. So you gotta… Use what you have, to make it on your own. That’s how you’re going to be strong, that’s how you are strong. That’s how you climbed here.’</p><p>A deep, heavy silence fell, and for a while, Sam was ready to just jump down the tower - it would be much better than the embarrassment he just put himself into. That’s until he raised his sight to Finn, who turned out to be looking at him with big, watery eyes behind the glasses; the smile creeped up her face slowly, while squeezing the gifted pocket watch tightly against her chest.</p><p>’You stole it,’ she simply stated, earning a laugh from the boy.</p><p>’I might’ve.’</p><p>’You stole an antique and scribbled some nonsense in it.’</p><p>’I did, okay.’</p><p>’Thank you. But promise, you’ll be at my side either way.’</p><p>Sam grinned widely and nudged the girl with his elbow.</p><p>’You know I will, I don’t have to promise.’</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>———</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Fiona cringed at the memory, fingers fumbling with a small, familiar globe shape in her pocket. A lit cigarette hung from her mouth, although Sullivan didn’t say a word - he didn’t dare, almost. She blew out some smoke, a light wheeze audible in her lungs, and tried, for what felt like a hundredth time, to focus on a worn journal in which she scribbled, one that laid comfortably on her knees.</p><p>The plane was high in the air for a good hour, not one sentence spoken since the beginning of the flight. The old man steered the machine in silence, lost in his thought, but asking many inaudible questions; Nathan sat next to him, on a pilot seat, all his attention on a thick, old book, probably trying to distract himself. In the further space, on the opposite sides from each other, Fiona and Sam were seated: her with legs crossed, squinted eyes fixed on some yellow papers, him - elbows leaning against his knees, gaze not leaving her, mouth slightly agape.</p><p>Samuel simply couldn’t wrap his mind around the absurd of the whole situation, the childhood friend - not only a friend, a damn <em>soulmate</em>, as he used to say - just sitting there, as if they never parted. She haven’t changed at all, but at the same time, she was completely different: he was glad to see she didn’t grew out her hair, keeping them short; the shape of her glasses was as round and silly as ever, her posture - disproportionate, with long, thin limbs and neck, and small head. Just like he remembered, her grey eyes were big, with long, long lashes, giving her round face a childish appearance, cheeks blushed and lips baby pink.</p><p>But as he considered what haven’t changed, his expression fell; it was almost unbearable to capture how much, in fact, changed. And he didn’t even mean the few gentle wrinkles, tugging on her face, no - her demeanor was like a whole different person. She wasn’t cheerful, she wasn’t pure, nor innocent. She wasn’t the person he knew, so long ago.</p><p>She wasn’t a child, he realized with terror.</p><p>Well, no wonder, what was he thinking?</p><p>It must’ve been over twenty years.</p><p>Over twenty years since they - <em>he</em> - made the decision to leave her behind and conquer the world with his little brother, as the Drakes. Not once looking back at the orphanage, nor at who they left there.</p><p>Finn - <em>should I keep calling her that?</em>, he thought painfully - raised her gaze and caught man’s eyes, frowning deeply.</p><p>’I would appreciate if you stopped looking at me as if I had a dick on my forehead, mister <em>Drake</em>,’ she barked, putting a mean accent over his surname, making the atmosphere grow even heavier than before.</p><p>’Sorry,’ he mumbled, earning a side glance from Nathan. He knew Sully perked up his ears, ready to catch every little word. ’I just can’t quite believe I see you, Finn. It’s such a mad coincidence, and…’</p><p>Sam trailed off, realizing.</p><p>He should shut up before he makes things worse.</p><p>Fiona glanced at him from above the glasses, and if the gaze could kill he would be long dead. She puffed out a generous cloud of smoke, retrieved a cigarette - or rather its butt - from her mouth, and smashed it against the sole of an elegant oxford shoe; her cold stare not leaving older Drake’s hopeful, hazel eyes.</p><p>’It’s <em>doctor Jones</em> to you,’ she growled. ’And I’ll make it clear and be fucking kind now: I do not wish to discuss personal matters during the job.’</p><p>Breaking the eye contact with finality, she returned to the brisk, aggressive almost, scribbles across her journal. Sam sighed and scratched the light stubble that peppered his jaw, only to catch his little brother looking at him from behind the sit - unreadable expression on his face.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Let me just throw in a little bonus.<br/>I'm trying to describe Finn the best I can, so you can imagine her exactly like I do - but in case you're having trouble or would like to see my vision of her, may I invite you to my art Instagram account, where I recently uploaded a drawing of her!<br/>There we go: https://www.instagram.com/p/CApwYfzACp_/<br/>Thanks for reading, and for kudos, they mean a lot. xoxo</p>
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